Eliza Knight - The Rules of Chivalry (23 page)

Instead, he had to settle for patting her hand that rest
ed
on her forearm as they walked
,
linked arm in arm—and even that much he wasn’t certain wouldn’t be frowned upon by the monks. Luckily for them, the garden was deserted at this time of evening. The monks would retire early, since they would soon be awakened and summoned to another round of prayers.

He had to tell her his news soon. His heart lurched, even though he knew the change in situation would keep her safe, he still dreaded telling her. He’d never thought to have to cause her distress. In fact, his whole reason for coming to attend her was to give her a measure of comfort and peace, and then when he’d seen her again, kissed her, made love to her, everything had changed. He wanted to be the man she deserved, her husband in spirit.

And now he would have to deliver the news to her which he knew would cause her much anxiety.

“My lady…” he trailed off. When had he become such a coward?
Spit it out, man!

Elena stopped walking and turned to face him. Her gaze lit upon Thomas and
Raelyn
, whose expressions were a mixture of sorrow and regret.

“Michael,” her voice held a hint of panic, “what is it?”
“
Raelyn
will not be going anywhere for the time being.”

Elena pulled her hands away, and he was sure if he hadn’t gripped them in his own, she would have stormed to the couple who now appeared to be comforting each other, to voice her displeasure, but she needed to know all the facts first.

“It is not of his choosing, Elena.”

She turned her gaze back to him, stricken. “What has happened? You must tell me. Is it because of the men following us?”

“No, my lady.
The king has summoned us.”

“Us?”

“Aye, my lady.
He requests our presence in France to help secure his lands, and his title.”

Terror flashed in her eyes.

“Do not fear, my lady. You will be well protected here in the abbey.
Kent’s men have most likely
been called to serve and shan’t be able to bother you and your ladies while I am away. In fact, Kent himself may be headed to the continent. I shall try to return as quickly as I can.”

“Not if you are killed!” Her voice rose, and for a moment true panic and pain washed over her face.

Michael watched transfixed, as she cleared her face of emotion, while smoothing her skirts as if that gentle movement also soothed her nerves.

“I swear, I will return to you.” He was surprised at the vehemence in his own voice.

Elena’s gaze shot up, as if she too was struck by his conviction. Michael took his gaze off her for a moment and surveyed the herbal garden and orchard.

“Come this way, we might be afforded a measure of privacy.” He took her elbow between his fingers and steered her toward
an abhor
of grapevines. Once beneath the sweet smelling grapes, and out of view of anyone who might wish to see their actions, Michael pulled Elena into his arms.

“’Tis true going to battle is dangerous, but Elena, I have been trained since boyhood, there is nothing to fear. I shall come back to you.”

“Let us hope you are in one piece when you do.”

He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and brushed a kiss on her lips. “I will come home whole, and be more than happy to let you examine my person for any injuries.”

“And I will happily oblige.”

She lifted up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, her tongue, tasting of apples, swept between his lips to mingle and stroke against his. Their kiss deepened, becoming
desperate, as if they would both remember the taste of each other.

He would never forget
her,
the scent of her, the taste of her, the sight of her smile would be what kept him alive during the desolate months abroad.

Chapter
Twenty

T
he scents of summer flowers and ripe fruit surrounded Elena as she ambled through the gardens at St. Augustine’s Abbey. Nearly a month of peace had passed since Michael left her to her safety and solitude behind the abbey walls.

The men who’d been sent to ambush them had turned around when they hadn’t reached the abbey before the doors were locked tight against them. Every night for a fortnight, Elena had stayed up, blinking at the crumbling plaster ceiling, waiting for the call of alarm to go out. Only to finally fall asleep before finger lights of dawn crept over the room, and she would have to rise for morning prayers and chores.

Each day was the same, and while ordinarily she would have been bored to tears at the mundane ritualistic day after day activities, she relished them. No surprises. Knowing what to expect gave her a certain measure of comfort, something she’d never felt before—at least since she’d been in England.

Raelyn
was distraught however, and Elena spent much time comforting her friend, rather than focusing on her own pain—and thoughts of Michael. She couldn’t bear to imagine what he might be going through at that very moment. Behind abbey walls, they rarely got news of what was happening within the country, let alone abroad.

“My lady!”
Friar
Gyles
,
hustled down the garden path, his robes lifted by one fistful to his ankles so he could walk faster over the gravel path. His other hand clutched a rolled parchment. His face was pinched, and his manner agitated.

She hastened toward him, eyes riveted on the parchment. Was it a message for her?
From who?

“What is it, Friar?” Fear gripped her gut, twisting
painfully. What meager porridge she’d had for breakfast threatened to present
itself
.

“My lady, this just arrived by way of messenger—he presented your father’s crest so we were able to open the gates to him.”

Her father?
She had not heard from him since the letter telling her that her mother had passed on. He hadn’t even bothered to return her pleas for help. She frowned at the parchment, didn’t reach to take it.

“My lady?”
Friar
Gyles
held out the missive, his brow raised at her hands clasped at her waist.
“The missive?”

Elena pursed her lips. Her father’s communication could only mean bad news, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wished to read it. “Does the messenger require a response?”

“He didn’t say, my lady. Sir Jon sent him to the kitchens for a repast.”

Elena reached for the parchment, her fingers winding around the thin, crisp material. It was warm, as if it had rested against the body of the messenger and still contained his heat.

“Thank you, Friar.”

He nodded to her and retreated from the garden.

She looked down at her hand, her thumb brushing over the wax seal with her father’s crest pressed into it.

She walked to a bench in the cloister and sat staring for a long time at the missive. The bells chimed for mid-day prayer, and from where she sat, she watched the monks shuffle in a line to the chapel, already singing out their prayers for Sext.

Procrastinating further, she watched until the last monk entered the chapel, the large wooden door closing soundlessly behind him.

Alone, she again glanced at the parchment she held, now slightly damp from her sweaty palm.

Just open it.

With a deep sigh, Elena cracked the seal with her nail
and unrolled the parchment.

My Dearest Countess of Kent,

It is with great sadness I must report to you that your sister-by-
marriage,
has died in childbed. Your brother’s child decided to enter this world before its time, and while Lady Alyssa was delivered of a son, he lived not more than few breaths.

Richard is serving the king’s purpose in France, and has yet to learn the fate of his wife and child. Upon his return to
Enniscorthy
, Richard made mention of a visit to Kent. If you should see him, please relay this news to him, as I am not certain he will receive the missive I have sent abroad.

With honor,

Baron McCullough of
Enniscorthy

Elena’s heart fluttered and she quickly re-read the letter again. Oh, poor Richard!
And his wife and babe…

She rolled the parchment and tucked it into her bodice, then hurried around the cloister, entering the small side door of the church where she wouldn’t be seen by the monks. She edged along the sides to the
back of the nave, where an alta
r had been set up, some candles lit already to pray for the dead.

Elena lit two more candles, then knelt to her knees and prayed for the souls of her lost sister-by-marriage and nephew, and for that of her brother. While still on her knees she prayed for Michael and for Thomas
,
that they would return soon, and safe.

The monk’s voices rang out in prayer, and then there was nothing but the sounds of their shuffling feet.

“Are you well, my lady?” Abbot
Hunsden
stopped beside her, concern etched on his old weathered face.

Elena jolted, fearing he would berate her for having entered the church. But he only smiled reassuringly.

Elena stood. “I have heard news from my father,
’tis all. My sister-by-marriage
passed while birthing my brother’s son, and sadly the infant did not survive.”

The abbot nodded as if the news were something he heard every day.
“’Tis the way of things.
They are with God
now. You must trust in his divine plan.”

Elena nodded her acceptance of what Abbot
Hunsden
said, but on the inside, she did not agree. Alyssa and Richard had surely been so excited to start a family, and her brother’s wife had been so young.
For certain
, she had not wanted to pass from this earth, not yet.
And now Richard, twice a widower.

“Come, I have heard that you and your ladies sew
ed
shirts for the poor. This Saturday, we are opening our gates to the less fortunate. We will clothe them and give them food, and many will sleep the night in the chapel, praying for forgiveness of sins, so they might yet reach Heaven. I would see what stock you have prepared for us.”

Elena led the way to her and her ladies’ chamber where they had collectively sewn several dozen shirts in all sizes. She was grateful for the task, and for the Abbot who successfully averted her mind from her brother and his dead family.

*****

Being caked in mud, sweat, blood and God knows what else was awfully disturbing. After a month without being able to clean
himself
, other than splashing water here and there, Michael felt thoroughly like he’d climbed inside the castle’s
garderobe
and romped around in it until he was good and filthy.

Resting on his haunches and drawing strategies into the mud with his men, he lusted for a bath or a swim in the nearby river he could hear burbling and rushing over rocks just beyond their camp near
Harfleur
, France. Now late in August, their armor weighed heavily and hotly on their bodies, but the men were loath to be without it as an ambush was likely at any moment since they squatted on foreign lands—even if they had claimed it in the name of Henry V of England.

They were in the middle of a siege that at first
appeared would be easy, but day after day, the army of
Harfleur
fought, and Michael suspected, they had help. From
who
he had no idea, but there must have been a secret entrance that food stuffs, provisions and medical supplies were being smuggled through.

“Devereux.” The gruff voice of Alexander, Lord
Hardwyck
, who was in charge of the nearly thousand knights who camped with Michael and his own men, broke into his thoughts.

Michael stood, his legs protesting from being crouched for longer than he should have, and little rest.

“
Hardwyck
.”
Michael nodded at the fierce knight who held out his arm. Michael gripped his arm in a brief greeting.

“Why don’t you and your men take a break? There is a river beyond the hill there. My men have just returned from bathing.
’
Twas a nice relief from this infernal heat.”

It was only after he said it, that Michael noticed Alexander’s skin was not covered in grime, his armor shined. He shook out his stiff legs. He was exhausted, and while the sound of a dunk in the river was enticing, he almost would rather take a nap—for twelve hours.

His men, w
ho’d been watching
him
scratch
battle plans into the ground, held expectant looks on their faces.

“My men will relieve you until the morrow, Devereux. Go, clean yourselves and get some much needed rest. The French will not attack tonight.”

It was settled then. Michael turned fully to his men. “Round up the troops and tell them to go to the river for a wash. Afterwards, we shall eat and sleep.”

Once at the river, Michael sp
lit the men up into two groups—
bathers and guards. Although, Andrew didn’t think the French would attack, he could never be too sure. Fletch helped him out of his armor and
surcoat
, but he stopped him when they wanted to undress him further. His underclothes needed a good scrubbing and he wasn’t willing to clean his
body and then redress in the flea infested, blood and sweat caked fabric.

Michael slipped into the water, surprised at how cool it was against his flesh, even with the humid weather. He sunk lower, dipping his head beneath and swiping his hands through his hair. Diving low, he scooped up some gravelly rocks from the bottom of the river and used them to scrape the film off of his skin.

Fletch tossed him from the bank a cake of lye soap, which he used to wash his hair, body and clothes, relishing in the refreshing feeling of being clean. God, he’d never wanted a bath so badly. Well, that wasn’t particularly true, every time he’d been in battle, he’d wanted a chance to bathe, but typically, they had more men, more resources, and the danger was not as high. But in a siege situation, there was never a chance to take your eyes off the enemy.

He tossed the soap cake back to Fletch and sunk under the water again to rinse himself. When he resurfaced, he didn’t want to get out. He knew he should. It was only fair to give Fletch the same assistance he had given him, but he wanted to take just a minute or two more. He looked over at the bank, feeling guilt riddle his gut, to see that Fletch was engaged in what appeared to be a humorous conversation with another guard. Good, his comrade wouldn’t mind if he took a few more moments to relax in the cooling river.

Michael kicked his legs up, and floated on his back, eyes closed. He breathed deeply of the river air.
She
flashed in his mind.

Elena.

He hadn’t thought of her—or tried not to think of her—the entire time he was gone. But he saw her now—as he’d seen her when he left her. Her beautiful face, large eyes gazing intently into his. Her lips slightly purple from the juice of a grape plucked off the abbey garden arbor.

Her lips parted in a smile, and he found now, his own
lips parted, waiting to taste her kiss. Dear God, he missed her.

He grimaced, and opened his eyes to the blinding afternoon sun.
Enough of this.
He couldn’t be thinking of her now, he had to think of way to complete their siege of
Harfleur
.

And then he saw it.

It wasn’t much, just an odd angle of shrubbery. His senses perked up and he stood in the water, eyes riveted on the leafy vegetation beyond his guards. The shrubbery backed up to a rocky mountain wall, covered in lichen and moss.

Fletch must have seen Michael’s attention and fierce gaze, as he called out, “What is it, Sir?
On your guard
,
men!”

Michael exited the water, and walked, dripping to the odd shrubs, only to see they were more like brambles, which caught on the flesh of his finger, cutting into his skin with an itchy sting.

Fletch tossed him a sword, and Michael started to hack away at the vegetation, until the mountain wall was exposed—but here, behind the brambles, was not a mountain wall but a large stone overlap.
A doorway.

He motioned with his hand, and Fletch and several other guards came by to help him move the stone, which was surprisingly very light, and could have been moved by one man alone, perhaps even a
strong
woman. So this was how they were holding out. The bastards! They were sneaking in and out the entire time, and right in their midst. He felt like a fool. He’d had his suspicions, and if he hadn’t come to the river to bathe, he would have never known for sure. Indeed, he’d let himself get so exhausted, he hadn’t the initiative to even investigate to begin with.